


Tall Crimson Crested Walker

by Trista_zevkia



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fractured Fairy Tale, Let's Write Sherlock, M/M, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-31
Updated: 2013-10-31
Packaged: 2017-12-31 01:22:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1025641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trista_zevkia/pseuds/Trista_zevkia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>History gets stranger the further along it goes, and a tall man in dyed hair, walking in the woods to see his apiarist grandmother becomes Little Red Riding Hood. So what's really up with the wolf he meets?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tall Crimson Crested Walker

**Author's Note:**

> Just wanted to get something up for Halloween, so not brit-picked or beta tested.  
> Had the idea since the fairy tale challenge of Let's Write Sherlock, but just wrote it tonight, so let me know if there are any plotholes or mistakes, please and thanks.

Sherlock snarled at the woods as he walked through them, already bored. Some painter might sit in these wide delighting in the open woods with sunlight dappling through the canopy, lighting the lush undergrowth. Sherlock was tempted to burn it down simply to make it more interesting. He wouldn’t, but mainly because his Grand-mere had decided to retire in the middle of this hateful nowhere and raise bees.

It didn’t help that Mycroft and Moriarty had finally declared war on each other, Grand-mere’s house somewhere in the disputed territory. In order to escape from his brother’s palace guards, Sherlock had to don a disguise as one of the northern visitors. The red dye he’d used would take weeks to come out, so he kept his hood up to cover the sight. Running away to go visit someone who wasn’t expecting him in the middle of a war wasn’t his best idea, but there was no way Sherlock was lost. 

It was nearly sunset and he should have been at her cottage for tea, and the war preparations had changed the edges of the woods, but Sherlock would get there soon. He was simply taking the long route, making the most of his trip, since it’d be so much harder to sneak out the next time. He really hadn’t passed this fallen log twice already, because he’d remember seeing the man sleeping on it. 

Sherlock blinked out of his fuming long enough to deduce, and then snapped out of it completely when he realized what he saw; this man was surprisingly dangerous for such a mundane person. Since the man was resting his eyes, Sherlock had no problems talking to him, though he was above asking for directions. 

“Excuse me, but have you delivered any wood to Jacqueline de Holmes?” 

The man turned his head to face Sherlock before opening his eyes. Sherlock wasn’t close enough to guess at what color they were, but they seemed to be catching the setting sun in a strange way. It almost looked as if they were glowing. 

“What business is it of yours, hooded stranger?” 

“I was going to buy some wood to take with me, in case she didn’t already have some.” Sherlock sniffed. “But if you don’t want to sell me some, woodcutter, I can take my money elsewhere.” 

“I can tell you’re a rich lad from the accent, though the cloak hides it from your appearance.” The man commented, but didn’t see the need to get up to speak. 

“I borrowed this for reasons that do not concern you. So if you don’t want my money, I’ll leave.” 

“Maybe you should try circling around to the right this time, instead of the left. It won’t get you any closer to Madam Holmes, but you’ll feel more balanced at the end of the day.” 

The mocking was soft, an undertone, as it was more to point out the man knew he was lost than to hurt his feelings. Interesting. Should he confess to being her grandson, and by extension, the prince? Or would that make the interesting man become a boring kidnapper? It was probably safer to lie about the reason, ask for directions and forget about the man. 

“So tell me, soldier, do you feel balanced at night? After all, there is a war on and you’re lazing about, pretending to be a woodcutter.” 

The man sat up, slowly, moving until he was sitting on the log and staring at Sherlock. His face was calm, immobile, and an eyebrow flickered to ask if that was all Sherlock had. 

“Your clothes are carefully mended, with neat stitches normally used on battlefields to save soldiers’ lives, but the clothes are still old and ratty. You didn’t manage to save up much money being a soldier, though you don’t have the shakes of a man with diseases picked up from camp followers. Gambling problem? Short hair, as the military likes it so it can’t be grabbed in a fight, even though you’ve been out a while. Habit in grooming, or a habit of looking for and finding fights?” 

“Anything else?” The voice was devoid of emotion, enough so to give Mycroft a run for his title of Iceman. 

“The scars on your right forearm indicate you are left handed. As you cut through your enemies, they panic and try the same moves that have saved them before, attacking the right hand.” Sherlock smirked, but under his cloak he’d grabbed a fistful of a stunning powder he’d perfected. The only drawback was he had to be really close to use it. Fortunately, the people he offended tended to want to get in his face when they told him what they thought of his deductions. 

His voice still cold, leaning towards stunned, the man replied. “Brilliant.” 

Sherlock considered he’d held too tightly to his stun powder and stunned himself. “What?” 

“That was brilliant.” The man was smiling now, in his face and voice. “You do that for everyone you meet?” 

“For them? Most people seem to think I do it against them, and suggest I should find other trees to hydrate.” 

A snort of a laugh. “They tell you to piss off, you mean? More fool them.” Standing to his full height showed that it wasn’t that impressive of a height. “Come on then, I’ll take you to see Madam Holmes. Though if she doesn’t want to see you, I’ll take care of that too.” 

Sherlock thought about that as the man reached behind the log to pick something up. Grand-mere had only moved out here two seasons ago. “You’re very loyal, very quickly.” 

The man shrugged, and gave his axe a little twirl before sliding it into the holder on his back. “Must have some dog in me. My name is John.” 

“Sherlock.” There was a brief handshake, and then Sherlock gestured for John to lead the way. He walked beside him, but still followed. “If you are going to make the transition from soldier to woodcutter, you might need to get a new axe. What good would a double bladed axe do a woodcutter?” 

“Spare, in case the one side goes dull.” John replied. 

Sherlock let himself laugh, and couldn’t help but enjoy the walk through the woods now. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

It was fully dark when they came upon the Grand-mere’s cottage. It was two stories with a wraparound balcony, something Mycroft had come up with ‘in case of siege’. Warm light stretched out of the house, which despite its size was still warm and welcoming. Sherlock had only ever felt that was around Grand-mere and Mrs. Hudson, but that gypsy lady wouldn’t be back until the war was over. Sherlock was already frowning at this when he realized John hadn’t stepped into the clearing with him. His frown deepened as he turned back. 

John somehow shrugged while leaning against a tree. “I’ll hear anybody who calls out for help.” 

“She will insist that I stay the night.” 

“She’s hospitable that way.” 

“I will need to return to London quickly, though. I already spent too much time away from my duties.” Sherlock was lying his head off, and carefully not examining the reasons why. 

“Ah.” John had apparently deduced something about Sherlock’s reluctance to end the journey. “If it won’t burden you unduly, I could meet you here in the morning. So you can show me how to get to London from here.” 

“It would be my pleasure, John.” Sherlock offered with a courtly bow. The bow was sarcasm, to hide the fact that he meant the words. It was with an effort that he didn’t turn back to look for John more than twice as he covered the last bit of distance. He knocked, heard an unintelligible voice, and entered. 

“Grand-mere, all of Mycroft’s protections will be even more useless if you don’t lock the door.” 

The door slammed shut behind him, and Sherlock reached for his stun powder. A cough echoed from the kitchen, and Sherlock moved cautiously toward it. Reaching for his most innocent and friendly tone, Sherlock called out for his Grand-mere. 

“In the kitchen, dear.” The voice that responded was soft, but thick and deep. “A draft has come up, making the door act weird. It also gave me a head cold.” 

Reasonable, yet Sherlock kept his hand on the stun powder. “Had I known, I would have brought you some medicine.” His voice preceded him into the kitchen, where someone was stirring something on the stove. A young, male someone, wearing Sherlock’s grandmother’s nightclothes. 

“My, my, Grand-mere, what a big arse you have.” 

“Must be where Mycroft gets it.” Came the reply, before the man straightened and turned, smirking. “Moriarty, hi!” 

The wave and big grin where more distressing than the knowledge that he was facing his brother’s only decent enemy. “My goodness, Grand-mere, what big teeth you have.” 

“The better to eat you with, my dear.” Moriarty stepped forward, and held out a hand to shake. 

The manners that Mummy despaired of, leapt to the task, and Sherlock automatically accepted the handshake. 

Two pumps and Moriarty doubled his grip force and pulled Sherlock’s hand to his mouth. Sherlock gave a cry and tried to pull his hand back, but Moriarty managed to bite him before he could. When his hand did come free, he was bleeding from the wrist. Letting go of his stun powder at last, Sherlock found a handkerchief to put to it. 

“I don’t think you’ll get a ransom out of Mycroft if you eat us, so I hope you didn’t eat Grand-mere.” 

“Grandma flavored ewww! No, the old bag wasn’t here when I came calling. I was going to use your sentiment to trade her for you, and you for Mycroft’s capitulation. What can I say, this war is getting tedious.” 

“On that, we agree.” Sherlock nodded solemnly. “Have you considered surrendering?” 

“Only fake surrenders.” Moriarty said with a wide smile, before switching to serious again. “Have you heard that my father tried to have me killed, had me dragged to these woods to die?” 

Sherlock inclined his head, as that was one of the tamest rumors about Moriarty. 

“Let me tell you, it was worse than that. He sent me to these woods because they could control me. They did, for a long time, but I broke free and reclaimed my rightful place.” 

“Let me guess. After defeating Mycroft you’re going to burn the woods down to kill whatever it is in the woods that controlled you.” 

“Burn? No, burning people alive can get boring after a while. I am going to find the heart of each and every person on this planet and destroy what they hold dear. I’ll burn the heart out of everyone; I’ll burn the heart out of you.” 

“Unfortunately for you, I don’t have one.” Sherlock forced a smile he didn’t really feel onto his face. In fact, he didn’t really feel good at all. It might have been the bite, but it might also have been the psycho he was talking to. 

“I know; that’s why I had to take other measures with you. That little love bite is the same one I got when I entered the woods, and it compelled me to obey the man who made me. You will obey me, you will walk up to your brother and bite him, and you both will obey me. I think I’ll even allow Mycroft to live, as he’s simply marvelous at the boring, day to day grind of being king. You’ll have to convince me of your worth or I’ll make you into shoes.” 

“Kill me now.” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. 

“ **Kneel**!” Snapped the other man, and Sherlock felt the desire to obey. 

He fought it, locking his knees and staying upright, but it was incredibly strong. 

“Fight, Sherly, I love breaking the fighters.” 

“Kneel.” This voice commanded Sherlock in a different way, and he obeyed. Two daggers flew through the air where his head had been and sunk into Moriarty. He staggered backward, but didn’t go down, so Sherlock threw his stunning powder. Moriarty got a comical look of shock on his face and it froze as the stunning powder took effect. He was probably more surprised by his attacker than Sherlock’s powder, but it was enough to let John get up close to him. 

“Brother.” Moriarty managed to gasp out. 

“I can’t kill a member of the pack, is that what you’re trying to say?” John asked, far too calm for the situation. “Well, they can’t kill me for killing you either. And I dare say I’m used to the loneliness of banishment. Who do I have to thank for that, brother?” 

This last, rhetorical question was accented by the removal of a dagger from a sheath. Moriarty shook his head, flinging away the stunning powder. The effects should have lasted longer, so Sherlock reached for his other weapons and stood. 

“Looks like you waited too long to try, as moonrise is upon us.” Moriarty smirked before his body began to change. Hair sprouted and grew, teeth erupted from his mouth as it formed into a snout. 

Sherlock began looking around the kitchen, knowing he didn’t have anything on him to fight a werewolf. Maybe Grand-mere used wolf’s bane as a spice or silver knives? Categorizing the kitchen, Sherlock almost missed it when John’s right hand jabbed something into Moriarty. The werewolf howled in pain, clawing at the wound, even as his body continued to change. A large and imposing wolf on two legs, he fell forward onto all four paws. He shrank, his teeth receded, until he looked like any other wolf. Not so large, and rather underfeed, he looked completely confused. John sighed. 

“I’d explain to you what just happened, but you wouldn’t understand.” Turning his back on Moriarty, John opened the kitchen door. Moriarty bounded out of it, tail tucked between his legs. 

“What just happened? How did it happen? Why did you let him go?” Sherlock began questioning John, allowing the man to lead him where he would in hopes of getting an answer. 

John soaked the bloodied handkerchief in water until the dried blood came loose, and then cleaned and inspected the wound. Finally, he licked it and took a moment to consider the taste; that was what got Sherlock to stop talking. 

“So, let’s start at the beginning, or there about. My father was given the care and training of Moriarty. I don’t know why, as my Da was not the best pack animal, if you understand me. Moriarty killed him, blamed me, I was banished, fought in wars, as you so brilliantly deduced. Clara wrote, told me the banishment was revoked because everybody could see what kind of man Moriarty really was.” 

John had moved over to the stove and poked at the fire in it. Satisfied, he moved a kettle closer to the top of the fire. 

“Are you making tea?” Sherlock blurted out, almost before he could think about it. 

“Yeah, you want?” 

“Thank you.” Sherlock offered, for want of anything else to say. 

“So, right, came back, war here, set up patrols in the woods. Started looking for a way to get to Moriarty. Your Gran, it’s not as bad as it sounds, but she suggested using you as bait.” 

Sherlock smiled and lifted his head in pride. Grand-mere had been the only one to have faith that he could handle himself. 

John saw Sherlock’s reaction and gave a head shake. “She knew you’d come see her eventually, so we let Moriarty’s friends in the pack stay. They told him when you were seen, and used magic to keep you lost in the woods.” 

“Ha!” Sherlock ejaculated, spreading his hands to point out how obvious it was that he couldn’t get lost without magical meddling. 

John put a mug of tea in his outstretched hand. 

“Grand-mere is with your pack?” 

“Completely unharmed.” John smiled and nodded, which quickly turned into a frown. “You weren’t supposed to get bit, though.” 

“It’s almost healed now.” 

“Sure, but on the next full moon…” John trailed off, unsure of how to explain it. 

“I’m a werewolf now?” 

“Yes. Bite on the veins lets the werewolf saliva into your system. If he’d just ripped your throat out or your limbs off, or even bitten a chunk out of your flesh, you’d just be a dead human.” 

“Wait. If werewolves change by the light of the moon, why are we drinking tea and talking?” 

“Your bite needs time to take over your body, and I like tea.” 

Sherlock stared at John. 

John looked back with only mild curiosity showing on his face. 

“Are you human because you were banished?” 

“What makes you think that?” 

“Whatever you stabbed Moriarty with caused him to become a wolf and not a werewolf. It stands to reason that they could do the same, making a disgraced werewolf into a human.” 

“That’s a great idea. I wonder if it is possible.” John sipped his tea and thought about it for a moment. “Well, I stabbed Moriarty with some herbs frozen into blood from a pure wolf, bound with magic. Moriarty will make a smart, cunning wolf, but he won’t be able to interfere with the human world again. And if he pisses off enough of the real wolves, they’ll just kill him.” 

“John, fascinating as all that is, tell me a little bit about you.” 

“Drink your tea.” 

With a heavy sigh, Sherlock took a sip. It was the perfect temperature and it was made just the way he liked it. He drank down the rest of the cup and looked to John again, waiting for John’s secrets. 

“ **Wash it out**.” 

This was the heavy compulsion Moriarty had used, and Sherlock couldn’t fight it at all. He used hot water out of the kettle and washed out the cup, placing it face down beside the sink. Finished, he turned and glared at John. 

“Just wanted to prove your gran wrong; she said you couldn’t wash a cup to save your life.” John’s grin faded. “And explain a few things. That hatred you feel toward being control? Moriarty felt that every day for the five years he was with us. He was twisted when he got here, but Da took the wrong approach to correcting it. It’s what drove Moriarty to kill him. I would rather we not take that approach with you, as I expect you’d loath it.” 

“You’re going to be my werewolf trainer?” 

“Not exactly. Any werewolf older than you will be able to compel you to act, unless you are bonded. The bonding will prevent changed werewolves form compelling you. Born werewolves will be able to compel, but your mate would know about it, so most born wolves don’t bother.” 

“You just went from ‘bonding’ to ‘mate.’ There are bonds between brothers, and bonds between people who live through the same trauma, but mate is a little different.” 

“Mate is a great deal different. Born wolves can change at will, and can also tell when someone will be a good mate for them. Some of the changed wolves can to, so you can wait and find your options, but I tasted your blood when I healed your wound.” John set his mug down, and ran his hands through his short hair, but he looked directly at Sherlock to say. “You’d be a fantastic mate for me, so, I’d like to ask that you consider me as a possible mate.” 

Sherlock thought about it, his mind flickering through thousands of possibilities, probabilities, and scenarios. The ones that had him finding a cure for the werewolf thing and returning home were dismissed out of boredom. Most came down to the fact that he hadn’t met anybody half as interesting as John in his lifetime. And John had been interesting before Sherlock knew he was a born werewolf. 

“I will, naturally, need time to learn pack life and meet the other members. But I do appreciate that you understood how hateful it would be for me to be compelled and ordered around by the entire pack.” 

John nodded, face frozen between crushing disappointment and burgeoning hope. 

“You should know that I was considering you as a possible mate when I asked you to walk me to London tomorrow.” 

Hope burgeoned, taking over his face in a sparkling smile. 

Sherlock leaned down to taste that smile with a kiss, and something in him knew John would be the perfect mate. 


End file.
